


Access Denied

by intotheruins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (at least he tries), 5 Times, Ableism, Animal Death (off screen), Anxiety Attacks, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sensory Processing Disorder, Supportive John, not sure it counts as fluff but close?, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11682996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: Five times Sherlock needed to use a weighted blanket to calm down, and one time he shared it with John.





	Access Denied

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Access Denied](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14617035) by [Alteas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alteas/pseuds/Alteas)



> I recently went on Amazon to price a weighted blanket because I think it might be really helpful for sleeping/calming down, and out of nowhere I was ATTACKED by the idea of autistic Sherlock needing a weighted blanket to help him manage anxiety attacks. I was going to just jot down the idea and come back to it after I finished the other three one shots I'm working on, but it demanded to be written, so. Here it is. :D
> 
> Please let me know if you see any spelling errors (where I might have used American English instead of British English) or any other Americanisms that might have slipped in by accident.

~1~

'Sherlock!'

He can't he can't _he can't._ Some distant part of Sherlock wants to respond, to call to John that he's alright, except that he isn't. He runs down the hall instead, through the open door of his room that he then smashes closed, cutting off John's repeated, worried cries. Throws the lock, just in case—he wouldn't put it past John to barge in if the lock remained open, but he won't break down the door unless he believes Sherlock is in real danger.

Real, _physical_ danger, that is.

Frantic, Sherlock flings himself to his knees, diving halfway under his bed to scrabble at the secret he keeps there—a black weighted blanket, soft with age but no less durable than when he first purchased it sixteen years ago. He doesn't even bother taking off his coat or climbing onto the bed, just collapses into a ball on the floor and throws the blanket over his entire body.

Darkness and warmth envelop him, sinking in with just the right amount of pressure. For the first time in half an hour, Sherlock draws a full breath.

'Sherlock?'

John's voice, soft and muffled by wood. So _concerned._

'Piss off!' Sherlock snaps.

He closes his eyes and just tries to breathe.

Sometimes he hates himself. John is worried. John cares enough to be worried, and Sherlock loves him for that, he just... he doesn't know _how._ How to express it, the words to use—he can't even get the body language right. He doesn't usually bother, rarely cares enough to try ( _Lestrade = friend: Sherlock can be mostly himself around him – Mrs. Hudson = mother figure: love unconditionally, protect, allow mothering – Mycroft = brother: love despite extreme frustration, use banter language, Mycroft understands_ ). John doesn't fit into his neat little mental spreadsheet. He understands things about Sherlock that Sherlock himself doesn't, and it makes him... defensive.

So he calls himself a sociopath, and he snaps and bites and claws, and hates that he hates himself for it.

He breathes, and waits for John to be angry.

Instead, he hears, 'Okay. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me.'

Voice: soft, pitched low, no audible signs of anger. Footsteps: quiet, careful. Doesn't understand what happened, but understands what Sherlock needs.

Sherlock bites his lower lip because his eyes are burning and it's distracting.

He doesn't move for a while. Stays curled in on himself, in the dark and the warmth and the weight.

Stupid. So stupid. He's seen countless bodies that went through various forms of violence, some of them truly horrific, and it has no effect on him. His brain sees and catalogues, shifting facts and data into the appropriate places, and he feels nothing but the curiosity and the thrill of the mystery. When Lestrade phoned that morning with a new case, that was all Sherlock expected to see. A human body, maybe more than one.

There were two, as it turned out. One human, and one dog. An Irish Setter with his neck broken, just like his person's neck was broken. Sherlock took one look at the glassy gaze and saw his childhood dog, the same glassy-eyed stare after he was put to sleep. He wasn't supposed to see, had snuck inside because he couldn't bear the thought of his dog going anywhere without him.

One look and Sherlock's mind was filled with the sounds of his nine-year-old self's screams.

He didn't even get one word out before he ran.

God, what is he going to tell Lestrade? Illness? Experiment gone wrong? He can't say _trigger_ because a sociopath wouldn't have them. He hates the word, anyway—hates that the emotion attached to the memory is so strong that one little reminder overwhelms his mind, even twenty-five years later. He can't tell them that he had an _anxiety attack_ over a dead dog because then they'll all _know._

John will know. John can't know. John will leave if he knows.

The thought process is threatening to send him into a renewed attack, so he cuts it off and begins reciting the periodic table under his breath. He lets himself rock a little, just a bit, hardly enough to even disturb the blanket, and by the time he finishes he's starting to feel more like himself.

He crawls out from under the blanket. Folds it neatly and slides it back beneath his bed. He slips into the bathroom and fixes his hair (sweaty) and removes his coat and scarf (rumpled) before he finally lets himself wander into the kitchen as if nothing happened.

John is sitting at the table with his laptop and a cup of tea. He doesn't look up while Sherlock goes by to hang up his coat and scarf, but he does glance up when Sherlock returns.

'Kettle's just boiled,' John says calmly.

Yes, Sherlock can see that from the fact that John's tea is still steaming. Instead of saying so, Sherlock inclines his head in the way John knows means _thank you,_ and begins pawing through the box of assorted teas John's left on the counter for him.

When they return to NSY the next day (despite his attack, Sherlock still managed to collect enough data to at least send them in the right direction), Sherlock tells Lestrade that his last experiment might not have been his best idea, and hopes that will be explanation enough.

Lestrade just chuckles and claps him on the shoulder.

*

~2~

Three months later, they're on a case in Dartmoor and Sherlock is on the floor of their room, flinging things out of his suitcase, barely able to acknowledge the sound of John's fist pounding into the door. At the very bottom of his case is the blanket, the one he desperately needs right now, but there seems to be an endless supply of shirts and socks in his way and his hands won't stop _shaking._

( _The hound was massive, glowing. Red eyes, also glowing. Animals glowing in the dark = possible, with genetic splicing or possibly mutation. Red eyes as bright as a campfire = impossible. Improbable?_ _ **ERROR: not enough data**_ )

A strangle cry catches in Sherlock's throat as his shaking fingers finally tangle in his blanket. He kicks the suitcase hard enough to send it crashing into the door and flings himself under it, pulling it in close, imagining the weight is a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his middle.

Arms. John's arms?

( _New data: would like to be held by John. Add to file J O H N, sub-category: none—impossible to categorise John Watson—_ )

Sherlock hisses through clenched teeth. He threads his fingers into his hair, grips hard enough to hurt and tugs. He's terrified, he can't stop shaking, yet his brain won't shut off, running faster and faster as the adrenaline fuels it. If this is an anxiety attack, he's never had one like it. He can't keep one thread of thought long enough to focus on it, and if he can't focus he can't stop the surges of terror.

John's still pounding on the door. Just a steady, hollow _thump thump thump_ without a break in rhythm. Sherlock latches onto it, breathes to it. He wants to scream, god, he wants to scream so badly, but that's one of the _signs,_ one of those things he cannot do around others. Especially not John. _John can't know._

He's so busy biting his tongue, using the pain to redirect the need to expel his terror vocally, that it takes him a few minutes to realize the thump has slowed, though it hasn't lost it's rhythm. In fact, it's become more pronounced.

He freezes. His breath comes out hard through his nose, his fingers tangle further in his hair.

John says nothing. No more yelling, no more concerned cries of Sherlock's name. Just the steady pounding.

Sherlock breathes. He rocks to the rhythm, and hopes, desperately hopes, that this doesn't mean John has figured it out. A steady beat might be just as soothing to a neurotypical having a panic attack. Maybe John learned it in the army. In therapy.

He breathes, and lets his mind latch onto the only thing it seems capable of focusing on just then.

John. John. _John._

_*_

~3~

Six months pass before the blanket makes another appearance, and he doesn't _need_ it this time. He's fine, he's just shaking from hunger (which says a lot about how long he went without food, really). The three men who abducted him are—were—professionals. Ex-military, weapons experts, combat training, and one expert in torture. Psychological torture, which so happened to be far more effective on one Sherlock Holmes than any physical torture might have been.

Alright, so maybe he needs the damn thing. He's not panicking yet, but he's close. They kept him in a dark room with no windows, no sources of light at all. Blindfolded, gagged, ears plugged—they even took his sense of smell with something containing high levels of menthol. Pain Sherlock can handle; he knows how to channel it, how to make it work in his favour—it even helps to ground him. Sensory deprivation is a gray area. If he's alone and knows he's safe, the experience can be calming, but while high on adrenaline and knowing full well that there were three bodyguards working for a drug cartel in the same room with him turned the deprivation into a nightmare. It left him just on the edge of panic for... three to four days, judging by the gnawing in his stomach and the shaking in his hands. He can go six days without eating with minimal effect, and he had nothing to eat for three days prior to his capture while he worked the case despite John's constant nagging, so most likely four.

Another day, maybe two, and he might have cracked. Given them what they wanted ( _they knew of him before they'd taken him, knew he was a genius, they thought they could use him to move the drugs without being detected by the police_ ). It's very good, then, that Mycroft chose today to find and extract him.

He wants to be irritated that he didn't find a way out himself, but he's shaking and he's hungry and all the sensory data is hitting him at once, and he finds the only emotion he's able to conjure up is gratitude.

Something heavy and warm settles over his shoulders. Sherlock doesn't jump, but it's a close thing. He blinks, realizes just how far into himself he's gone—he has no idea when he ended up sitting on a folding metal chair, or where the half-empty water bottle in his hand came from. He feels himself rocking and stops, but a gentle hand on his shoulder propels him forward again.

'No one is watching,' Mycoft says quietly. When Sherlock looks up, he sees an expression that most would mistake as calm. No lines drawn into Mycroft's eyes or mouth to indicate stress or worry, but it's there, in his eyes, for anyone who knows where to look.

Mycroft has put the weighted blanket around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock frowns, and plucks at one end of it with shaking fingers.

Mycroft clears his throat. 'It wouldn't matter if they were,' he continues. 'Sherlock, I was fourteen. Even I made mistakes at fourteen.'

It takes less than a second for Sherlock to make the connection, to find the necessary file ( _Age seven, family outing in town, Mummy bought Sherlock a new pirate hat, Mycroft held his hand. There was a bakery. Mycroft ate too much cake. A boy Sherlock's age stole his hat. Sherlock screamed until Mummy got it back for him, and rocked while Mummy tried to assure him that the boy just wanted to play with him. Sherlock didn't want to play—the hat was his,_ his _, and someone else had touched it. He ran his hands over it and kept rocking. Mycroft grabbed his arms and shook him: 'You have to stop this, Sherlock, stop! Everyone will think there's something wrong with you!'_ )

'Are you admitting to not being perfect, then?' (I know. It's okay)

'Well.' Mycroft smirked, just a little thing curled up like a snake in one corner of his lips. 'Not when I was young, I suppose.'

Sherlock snorts. He tugs the blanket closer, lets himself rock softly, and when he meets Mycroft's irritatingly warm gaze he finds himself laughing. Mycroft chuckles, and squeezes the hand still on Sherlock's shoulder.

'I was expecting you to find me faster,' Sherlock grumbles in an attempt to cover up his somewhat frantic humour.

'Mm.' Mycroft's smirk melts into a mildly annoyed frown. 'The men who took you were surprisingly resourceful. Though...' the lines around Mycroft's eyes and mouth tighten. He lets out a sigh, and continues in a tighter tone, 'I didn't find you.'

Sherlock frowns. 'What? You... John.'

Mycroft smiles—if the barely curved line of annoyance and reluctant approval etched into his lips can be called a smile. 'He found your scarf, correctly deduced that you deliberately dropped it so that the curve would be pointing in the direction your captors took you. He then contacted me to gain access to the CCTV cameras, only to discover the men were clever enough to abduct you from a blind spot.'

'An error I'm sure you've already corrected,' Sherlock mutters.

'Hm, yes. Though it hardly mattered; John followed the street to the next camera, and was able to find their path from there. It took more time than expected to break into the building—we were worried they might try to kill you if we didn't take them by surprise. I... apologise for that.'

Mycroft's tone is mild, borderline dismissive, but the fingers digging harshly into the muscle of Sherlock's shoulder tell a different story.

'He deduced,' Sherlock repeats, a hint of a smile playing around his lips. The anxiety is easing back to make way for a flood of pride. 'Where is he?'

The hand on his shoulder lifts away, and Mycroft takes a step back. 'I had him wait outside. Well... I had my men hold him back. I wasn't sure what state we would find you in, and how much you've told him.'

Sherlock's jaw clenches, but he gives a sharp, grateful nod.

'I haven't told him anything.' Sherlock raises one eyebrow. 'And what do you mean, _you weren't sure?_ '

Mycroft chuckles. 'Contrary to what you may believe, I don't, in fact, know everything.'

Sherlock snorts. The hell he doesn't.

'Let him in,' Sherlock demands.

It's Mycroft's turn to raise an eyebrow. 'With the blanket?'

Sherlock pauses. Then, slowly, he slides it from his shoulders and folds it as neatly as he can in his position. Mycroft takes it without comment, and gives a sharp nod to someone by the door to the ( _factory? Yes, abandoned factory, close to the Thames judging by the mud on the paramedic's shoes and the damp smell wafting in from the broken window_ ).

Less than a second later John _explodes_ inside, shoving men twice his size into the wall and elbowing one woman out of the way as he races towards Sherlock.

'You're okay,' John breathes, falling to his knees so hard that Sherlock can hear the crack of bone striking the cement floor. 'Oh god, you're okay. Are you okay?' His hands immediately begin roving over Sherlock's body; cupping his face to peer into his eyes, sliding over his throat and shoulders, down his chest, smoothing over his thighs.

Sherlock doesn't miss the way Mycroft's eyebrows twitch upwards in quiet surprise. He knows Sherlock can only stand certain kinds of touch, and John's touches are too light, should have Sherlock flinching away, if not outright striking at him. But it's _John._ He can handle it for a few minutes, if it means John is appeased.

And then, unexpectedly, John's hands clamp down on his knees, fingers digging into muscle with just the right amount of pressure. His eyes are huge as he takes in Sherlock's face, meets his gaze.

Sherlock waits for him to say something predictable, like _don't do that to me again._

Instead, John rears back and headbutts him. There's a sharp thump as their skulls meet, and Sherlock's head snaps backwards, neck failing to support him when he wasn't prepared for the attack.

'I swear to god, Sherlock, if you don't call me before running off after a lead next time, I will confine you to your room until you're so bored you _scream.'_

Without bothering to lift his head, Sherlock starts to laugh. Any leftover anxiety is chased away and he reaches out, clutches at John's blue jumper, at the strong shoulders beneath, pressing his thumb precisely into the center of John's scar through thick fabric, and swears between gasping breaths that he will wait for John, next time.

He has no idea if he can keep that promise, but John's relieved smile is more than worth the attempt.

*

~4~

Moriarty is dead.

Sherlock stands in the sitting room, staring at nothing. Everything went beautifully—much better than he originally thought it would. Mycroft was able to dispatch the snipers, meaning Sherlock did not have to fake his death, did not have to traumatise John by forcing him to watch. The villain of this twisted fairy tale is dead, and Sherlock should feel elated. He won.

But he keeps thinking of how close he came to having to leave everything behind. He nearly lost his home, Mrs. Hudson, _John._ His mind is trapped on all the threads of Moriarty's web that he will still have to dispatch (though at least, he'll have John's help), and most of all, Sherlock finds that instead of triumph over Moriarty's defeat, he is... empty.

That could have been him. He so easily could have become everything Moriarty was, could have allowed himself to be seduced by what Moriarty was— _freedom._

In the kitchen, John is making tea. The cups clink against the counter; the kettle clicks off; the box of Earl Gray rustles. Sherlock flinches with every sound. The distant whir of Mrs. Hudson hoovering drifts up the stairs. John's footfalls are heavy. A car horn blares; a siren wails in the distance.

Sherlock screams.

His defenses are gone. Sherlock screams, and flings himself to the floor to beat his fists against it. The pain is distant, irrelevant—he has to get everything _out,_ too much coming in all at once, he can't think, just white noise and the stab of every little sound of life piercing his ears to puncture holes in his brain.

Distantly, he hears a crash (too much too loud it _hurts_ ) and more footfalls. A hard, sudden thump. Mrs. Hudson's lighter steps on the stairs. John's voice, Mrs. Hudson's gasp—Sherlock screams louder, tries to drown it out, god, he just needs it all to stop...

And then it does. There is abrupt, blessed _silence,_ and it takes Sherlock a moment to realize there are headphones over his ears. Noise-canceling headphones. In a rush of relief, Sherlock goes limp against the floor, his fists uncurling and throbbing with pain. He pants into the carpet and doesn't dare to move, terrified that somehow the headphones will just melt away if he so much as twitches.

He lays still while his brain slowly comes back online and his breathing becomes more manageable. Only then does he dare to sit up, to push the headphones down until they're hanging around his neck.

John is sitting cross-legged on the floor, roughly five feet away. To Sherlock's surprise, he is completely calm. He smiles when Sherlock looks at him, soft and reassuring, but otherwise doesn't move.

John Watson is always surprising him. It's probably one of the reasons Sherlock loves him so much.

'I got those for the nights you decide you need to abuse your violin rather than play it,' John says, nodding towards the headphones.

The data is absorbed and sorted, but currently irrelevant. Sherlock ignores it in favour of asking, 'How long have you known?' His voice is hoarse from screaming. He winces at the scrape in his throat.

'A while,' John replies with a shrug. 'I wasn't positive, not until just now. There were signs I don't think you realised you were exhibiting.'

' _Signs?_ ' Sherlock hisses the word—he is always so careful to hide anything that might give him away.

John nods. 'You stim constantly. I don't think you know you're doing it. And... well, I'm no expert, but the way you focus on crime and how intent you are on your experiments, it might be considered special interests.'

 _Stim. Special interest._ Sherlock eyes widened, a little 'Oh!' escaping him before he could catch it. 'Obvious, you've known someone... like me.'

John nods. 'At uni. She hid it, too. Sherlock. Whoever made you feel like you have to hide it... whoever made you feel less? They were wrong. There's nothing wrong with you.'

Sherlock scowls, baring his teeth and scrambling to his feet to use his height to loom over John. 'Oh really? You saw what I just did. You've seen how I act around people, how little I feel. I can't handle it when people touch me a certain way, I get overwhelmed, I have _anxiety attacks._ You don't think that makes me _weaker?_ '

He shouts the last, hurls the words at John like knives because John needs to see it, all of it, now that he's exposed. Because Sherlock needs to tear the plaster off in the hopes that it will hurt less, or if not less, just for a shorter period of time.

It's going to break him when John walks out the door. It's just a matter of how much, and for how long.

John stands, and Sherlock tenses, teeth still bared in something close to a snarl. Only John doesn't walk towards the door, or to his room to pack his things. Instead, he walks into Sherlock's room.

It's not the first time he's been in there—Sherlock knows John goes in to get his laundry, and Sherlock has never minded. He steals John's laptop and has gone through John's own room more than once, letting John into his seems only fair. But now it doesn't make _sense,_ and Sherlock hates things that don't make sense.

Then John comes back out, carrying the weighted blanket.

'Found this last time I went looking for laundry,' John offers as an explanation. He throws it around Sherlock's shoulders like a cape, tucks the ends into one hand to hold it in place.

Sherlock's scowl melts right off his face.

'You feel more than anyone I've ever met,' John says mildly. 'You just feel differently. You want to know what I think of all that? I think every time you walk out that door... hell, every time you walk out of your room... that you're incredibly brave. Because you know all of that about yourself, and you go into the world anyway. I think there's nothing wrong with you. I think you're the most incredible person I've ever met, even if you're the biggest prat I've ever met a the same time.' He steps closer, tugs at the blanket so that Sherlock is forced to bend forward just a bit.

'I think, Sherlock Holmes,' John murmurs, 'That you are wonderful.'

He kisses Sherlock on the forehead. Then he lets go, and leaves Sherlock standing in the sitting room with wide eyes and too much new data to sort through.

In the end, he simplifies it by adding a category to John's file.

(RENAME: J O H N = L O V E).

*

~5~

The next time he uses the blanket, it's because John has kissed him on the mouth for the first time.

It happens at 6:01 on a Saturday morning. John is still sleepy, shuffling around the kitchen in nothing but his boxers and an open robe, eyes half-closed and hair mussed. He has two cups out for tea, and is checking the toaster to make sure Sherlock hasn't done anything strange to it before he makes toast.

There is nothing unusual about this. John is often sleepy and shuffling in the kitchen. Sherlock often reacts to it with a warm pressure in his chest and the nearly irrepressible need to smile. The only new element is that just two days ago, John openly accepted that Sherlock is... what he is... and kissed him on the forehead, and suddenly Sherlock is allowing himself to look at that warm pressure in a whole new light.

So instead of lounging on the sofa or poking at an experiment on the table, Sherlock is standing right behind John, just watching him. He's in a good mood—whistling a bit as he makes the toast, smiling at Sherlock as he hands him a cup of tea, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder as he slips by to get the marmalade from the fridge. He pauses then, glances at Sherlock with a questioning look, _is this okay,_ and Sherlock nods emphatically because yes, John touching him is always okay, even when the touches aren't something Sherlock would normally tolerate.

'Toast?' John asks a moment later, holding up his plate.

He's smeared marmalade on both slices because he knows Sherlock likes sweet things. Sherlock takes one without thinking, just because John is smiling and cheerful and starting to wake up a bit more, but his hair's still a mess, and Sherlock loves him.

He takes too big a bite and gets marmalade smeared into one corner of his mouth. John laughs and swipes it away with his thumb.

He kisses Sherlock, leans over the plate and up, and Sherlock isn't expecting it so the angle's all wrong, their teeth clash and John bites Sherlock's lower lip, and ends up laughing against Sherlock's mouth more than kissing him.

That's okay. It's still good, and Sherlock lifts his hands to cup John's face and tilt him a bit, dips his own head to change the angle and oh, yes, that's much better.

They stand there snogging over their toast for a good three minutes before Sherlock has to back away, mind whirling with so much data he's not sure how to even begin to sort it. He bolts before he can see the look on John's face ( _he's only done this once before, at uni, a boy named Victor who looked at him much the same way John does, only he didn't react so well to Sherlock's need to stop, to sort, to quiet the clamouring in his head before he can continue on_ ).

A moment later he comes back into the kitchen, blanket wrapped firmly around his shoulders. He doesn't need it, really, but now that he knows he can, now that he knows John won't think less of him, its presence helps him think.

John is now sat at the table, munching on the remainder of his breakfast. He smiles when Sherlock thumps down into a chair, doesn't seem irritated at all by Sherlock's need to flee.

'Working it all out in the massive head of yours?' John asks.

'Mm.' Sherlock separates his reactions from John's, sorts them into their appropriate places, a small smile curling into his lips as he relaxes. Once it's all sorted, he says, 'That was good.'

John grins. 'Good. Do you... erm...' He slides his hand across the table to grab Sherlock's, laces their fingers together. 'Do you want to do it again?'

Sherlock nods. 'John, I should warn you... I may stop again. I may stop at the most inconvenient time for you because I have to sort things or empty my mind a bit before it gets too cluttered.'

'It's fine,' John says easily. 'It's all fine. We'll go at whatever pace you need. Anything else I should know?'

Sherlock frowns. He's never had to discuss this before, so it takes him a moment before he replies, 'I don't really like to be touched lightly.'

The hand in his tightens. 'Got it. Anything else?'

'I... don't know.' Sherlock shrugs. 'I've never done this before.'

'We'll work it out as we go, then.'

He tugs Sherlock forward, practically pulls him halfway across the table to give him a kiss. The blanket puddles onto the floor and the table edge digs into Sherlock's hips. He couldn't possibly care less.

*

~+1~

One kiss turns to many more, and Sherlock finds he's not stopping after a while, no longer needs to sort anything because he has more interesting things to do, like discover the delightful moan John makes when Sherlock nips his earlobe, or the way he gasps when Sherlock sucks at his neck.

He doesn't remember when they started removing clothes. His brain is blissfully blank, allowing him to bask in sensation, and he lets the high of it carry him to his room, to his bed, to John.

Their first time is messy and awkward as they learn angles and shift their bodies to accommodate each other. Sherlock jabs John in the eye with his chin and John, in a fit of pained laughter, almost knees Sherlock in the crotch. They giggle and fumble their way through orgasm, and they can't figure out how to fit together until the aftermath, until John scoots in behind Sherlock and wraps an arm tight around his waist.

They spend the day in a lazy haze of sex and random trips to the kitchen for tea, and when night comes John falls asleep holding Sherlock, his face buried in Sherlock's curls.

To his amazement, Sherlock follows him easily.

He's woken again some time later by John's thrashing. He isn't crying out, he never does when he's having a nightmare, but he kicks and jerks, and once he snarls. Sherlock watches a moment, unsure of how to proceed. Waking him might be worse—John has lightening fast reflexes and there's a chance he'll deck Sherlock in that confused space between nightmare and consciousness.

But maybe... Sherlock slithers off the bed and goes to the kitchen to retrieve the blanket.

He hesitates a moment before throwing it over John. He's never shared it with anyone, never allowed anyone to touch it (except for Mycroft), but the hesitation is brief. This is John. He wants to share this with him.

So he lets the blanket settle over John's body, and watches as he begins to calm. He blinks awake just as Sherlock is climbing under the blanket with him.

“Sherlock?” Even half asleep John sounds shocked. He fingers the edge of the blanket, a smile teasing at his lips. “Thank you.”

Sherlock says nothing. He doesn't have to.

John understands.

*

END

 


End file.
